


Devil's Advocate

by ethereal (phena)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Eventual Smut, Explicit for a reason I hope, F/F, Fluff and Smut, I lack a love life therefore I wrote this, Slow Burn, why cant I find my own kylo trashcan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-07-29 12:18:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7684264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phena/pseuds/ethereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being the Devil's right hand man really isn't that bad - especially when the perks include free food, a nice room, and freedom to do almost anything you want.</p><p>But now the devil is Kylo Ren.</p><p>And working for him - well that's a whole other story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I shimmy down from the tree I'm hiding in ( _very_ poor choice considering the scarce amount of leaves on that thing) and land in a foot of green moss. Then, this mushy excuse of a plant has the **audacity** to suck in my nice brown boots, and off of _both_ my feet mind you, leaving me with just my socks and a _very_ bad mood. I would have fought right back, using my walking stick as a fishing pole to retrieve my footwear, but considering the fact that I am about forty meters away from the **most intense battle** that I have ever set eyes on, I decide against wasting any more time than I need to. It's not like I'm here to wildly burst into the fight, wave my oak staff around like some old wizard, and yodel to the sun about cutting the throats of my enemies and bathing in their blood. Quite the contrary. I'm here to complete my own little mission, which involves _a lot_ less killing and a lot more stealing.

I see smoke billowing to the sky, tumbling stone structures, and Stormtroopers aiming - and ultimately missing, those poor souls - at the **_strangest_** concoction of civilians. Was that a giant overweight _**toad**_? Is that a golden droid? And what is _Sasquatch_ doing with an arrow-gun? I am drawn into the _whoosh whoosh_ of the light sticks and the clash of blaster guns, but I quickly shake my head and remind myself I'm looking for a TIE fighter, preferably one whose occupant is...deceased. I step gently over the rocks and make my way through the forest path, keeping an eye out for such a machine. But my attention is divided, partly because of the **insane** amount of screeching and screaming coming from the skirmish, partly because of my socks squelching in the mud, but mostly because of the stupid bugs that have made it their **personal life ambition** to draw out every last drop of my O positive blood.

I grumble, "Why couldn't the insects go extinct instead of the dinosaurs?" And with that thought I trip over a thick tree root, land flat on my face whilst cursing to the stars, and - _Bingo_. A downed TIE fighter and the small pool of blood of its original driver. I eagerly crawl over to the aircraft, cross my heart and whisper, "Bless your soul", before dragging the body out and inserting myself into the cockpit. The windows are all cracked like spiderwebs, and the metal encasing is dented in more places than I can count, but the command panel is in tip top shape. I whip out my trusty knife, cut away the wiring, and stick my hand into the mess, wiggling around my fingers until I feel the smooth plastic covering of the Platinum core - who knew it would be this easy?

"These can buy more than **_60_** pairs of boots." I whisper to myself, and carefully stash my loot into my waist pocket.

I leap out of the aircraft, and start surveying my surroundings - just a whole damn lot of trees. I mean, it _is_ Takodana, and I _should_ be so grateful that it wasn't Hoth, where I was last employed. But I'm a whiny little punk, so if there is **anything** I can complain about, I will. If my luck can hold out though, I might be able to get more of these cores and even find some unused artillery. And then I could trade those in for thousands of-

 **WHOOSH**.

I dive into the ground, and turn around, seeing the burning hole in the tree behind me. I whip my head forward, and lock eyes with _eight_ Stormtroopers stomping towards me. Eight of them, and one of me. This is absolutely _so_ not fair. I decide that fleeing is _definitely_ the better option, so after I yell some incoherent phrase - something along the lines of, " **Eat my ass, you fucknuts!** " - I burst off to the side and into the nearest bundle of trees, my little socked feet pounding away like a sprinter.

 **WHOOSH**.

 _Another_ explosion, three inches away from my head. I gargle and force myself to run faster, to zig zag, and _maybe even play dead_ , because I am _so_ not ready to say goodbye to this world and enter the next. I hear the angry huffing of the troopers behind me, and I pray that some of them have come to their senses that you don't need eight grown men fighting one measly barely-adult girl. I sneak a peek behind me - and **oh nevermind, they've decided that ten of them is the proper number** \- and crash head first into a tarp.

I am just about to weave around this minor inconvenience when I feel synthetic heat permeating from the cloth, and when I open my eyes again I am greeted by a wondrous black mask that is three inches away from my face. And a burning red cross that is almost _searing off_ my eyebrows - **not** fun. This is no tarp - it is a grown man clad in black and he does **not** seem happy.

"Resistance fighter." He spits, although it is hard to differentiate any sort of emotion from that voice modulator.

I prop myself up on my elbows, and try to burrow the back of my head into the boulder behind me. I have _no_ clue how to approach this situation - I mean, Dieu Academy did not teach me what to do when a slightly perturbed masked man with a buzzing sword is accusing you of being the enemy, but they _did_ teach me about the importance of triangles. And if I say, "No I'm not," he'll just say, "Yes you are," and that would at best lead to childish bickering and at worst to my flaming demise.

So I diffuse the tension by standing up and announcing, "Maddox St. Clair. Mercenary. Swordfighter extraordinaire. Lover of food, and even better lover of good wine. But _**definitely not**_ a Resistance fighter." I curtsy.

Silence. The Stormtroopers arrive and threateningly point their weapons in my direction. The entire scene would have been hilarious if I were not in it: they look like a rogue boy band, with the black bundle of joy as their lead singer. I can almost imagine their concerts with fanatic girls throwing themselves on stage, tearing off - this is not the time.

"Then what are you doing running away from my soldiers and stealing from my ships?"

Now _that_ is a hard question. I consider lying, but seeing that I had recently made a pact to be more honest, I think about the least condemning truth... _maybe_ I could say I'm dazed and confused. But if I were in his position, I wouldn't have even thought _twice_ about me being part of the Resistance. The entire situation just screamed, "ENEMY!" and now my head is on the line. Even worse, I have no clue who he is or the extent of his powers. Is he poisoning me right now? Is he using the Force? What is the force even - damn it, I shouldn't have slept through those Force Introductory classes; at least now I'd know exactly what I am dealing with.

But instead I am squiggling around like a _headless_ _cockroach_.

"It's...my morning jog?" I say sheepishly and shrug my shoulders, hoping to divert their attention from killing me to laughing at me. No success.

Then he glances over me entirely and scoffs, "With no shoes?"

"It's, uh, a long story. Love to tell you some time." I shift awkwardly and expect his saber to come zooming towards my skull.

Instead, **Misfit Número Uno** points at me and declares, "Seize her." And ~~pirouettes~~ leaves in search of more fruitful hostages.

That's better than kill her, right? That means I'll be alive for a bit longer, right? Enough time for me to devise an escape plan, and then remake my identity and move to the farthest reach of the Galaxy, out of the hands of the evil warlords forever. And why would he want _me_ anyway?bProbably wants to stuff my head and stick it on his wall as a trophy. The Stormtroopers form a circle around me and use their blasters as ways of communication. Upwards point means _move_. Painful prod means _move faster_. And if they shoot me, well that means _end of Maddox's life_.

 _Really_ hoping they won't have to use that last one. ~~Because I work very hard to maintain my athletic body and having a hole thorough my chest will greatly diminish my attractiveness.~~ And of course, I want to mope around the universe a bit longer, long enough to start my own vineyard and become a bigoted old lady who refuses to accept any change for the betterment of society and yells about "Back in My Day!" about anything and everything.

After walking through the forest, trying _desperately_ to make conversation, and getting threatened every other word with a mean poke of a gun, we enter a large black airship (I sense a theme here). Before I even have three seconds to look around, I am knocked out by an _overly_ enthusiastic Officer with a fire extinguisher.

Ouch.

///

By the time I come to my senses, I realize I didn't get a chance to survey my surroundings - or do anything really. The possibility of my escape is dwindling every second, and then I see that I am in the **world's most erotic chair**. My hands are in metal clasps, and a weird head cage is pulled over my skull. I start twisting my body around, hoping that something is loose - nope. High quality stuff.

The metal door suddenly opens, and a Colonel (? I can't tell, they all look the same) and three plain-clothed officers enter wielding pipes. Uh, this _does not_ look good for me or my face. The Colonel charges right at me, screaming in my ear, "Where is Luke Skywalker?!"

I am so taken aback because who the fuck _**is**_ he? So being the honest gal I am, I said, "Who?"

And **smack**! Upper cut. Got to admit, he did pack _quite_ a punch for his small size. I twist my jaw around and try to blink out the stars I'm seeing. Why, I think that's the Big Dipper.

"Don't be coy, you trash." He sneers and rest of his men start pacing around me, slapping their pipes on their palms. Then he _tsunamis_ my face with a tidal wave of spit, "You should, however, be very scared."

"And you, kind sir, should control the sprinkler in your mouth." I scrunch up my face and try to will away the saliva **that is so not mine** from my cheek.

"How dare _you_ demean a member of the First Order!" He roars, and this time, I barely wince when he punches me again. Ah, and now I see the Little Dipper...

With my head barely on my neck, and my mind going at four million miles an hour - I do think he's hit out a few IQ points because **_I cannot stop thinking about sweet potatoes_** **_and yams_** \- the only thing that could save me from getting beaten to a pulp for withholding information that I do not have is a miracle, one of those Christmas ones you see on TV...or maybe not?

The door opens again and ~~my savior~~ the same tall, wrapped up in darkness fellow walks in. More of _aggressively_ struts in, like a footballer turned model.

"What do you think you're doing?" A robotic voice echoes around the room. Chills. Everyone freezes. Yet _I_ warble on, "And you can make sweet potato pie, sweet potato pudding-"

"Do not speak in the presence of Lord Ren!" The Colonel barks in my ear and I promptly shut up. But you **_really_** can make sweet potato ice cream, sweet potato crepes...

The bundle of joy glides across the floor and stares at the Colonel, reducing him into a puddle of sweat and tears. The other officers have used this time to scatter into the corridor, each bursting off in their own direction like a pack of fire ants.

"I said to interrogate the _man_ in Room 4, not Room 3." Ren - such a nice name, similar to zen, and quite fitting considering how _tranquil_ he seems - says passively.

The Colonel swallows hard, I start to make out the North Star, and Lord Ren waits patiently for an answer. And all he gets is, "My mistake."

 ** _Something_** in the room snaps.

 **AND I TAKE BACK EVERYTHING I HAVE JUST SAID.** Lord Ren goes fucking _bat shit crazy_ , whips out his saber and starts slicing up the walls like a kid on crack, the whole time seething with rage. He bellows about incompetence, uselessness, and " _You_ should not be allowed to reproduce!" The Colonel sits in the corner, rocking himself back and forth, probably crying, and my mind is traversing between sweet potato soup, the beautiful stars of the sky, and the stark, uncontrollable madness that is Ren. Zen, my ass. I feel the hot sparks from his sword skip on my skin, and I start to violently convulse in my chair.

I do not feel like getting cut up into a _million_ pieces by an obviously unstable mad man, thank you very much.

Then, as fast as it happens, it stops. The room is **_very_** noticeably on fire, the Colonel has passed out, and during his little tantrum, Ren had accidentally seared through the restraints on my hands. His back is to me, and I see his shoulders heave up and down. I delicately pry off the remaining metal, free my legs, and put _one pinky toe_ on the ground to see if I get a reaction.

Nothing, just _very_ labored breathing. Destruction must _truly_ be energy consuming.

And then I blast out of there and down the hallway, madly bumping into walls and apologizing to poles - how could I turn into _such a mess_ after two punches?! Then my fabulous escape is cut short by my stumbling over my own feet, and falling _straight_ into the arms of Ren.

Apparently my escape plan included returning to the location of imprisonment.

Ren dumps me on the ground and kneels down beside me, simply watching me loll from side to side and mutter on about astronomy and how to grow yams. When I stop acting _too_ insane, he speaks, "You are not part of the Resistance."

"No, sir, I am not." I manage to say without once mentioning potatoes.

"Then, what are you?"

"I thought I explained sir, back in the forest. I'm Maddox-" I am interrupted by a wave of a leathered finger.

"That wasn't a joke?" He asks inquisitively.

"No!" I say incredulously.

Then he stands up in the swirls of his black dress and speeds off into another room. I am in the process of crawling towards the nearest garbage chute to once again escape when I feel Ren's boots on my back. He has _legs of steel_. I admit defeat and turn on my back, looking up at the masked menace who is staring at a DataPad.

"You're Maddox St. Clair?" He demands in disbelief.

Now I'm annoyed, "Well, yes. What did you expect? One and only..."

"You're a wanted woman in three separate states and four Republics." He snorts.

 ** _Oh no_** , I didn't realize you could get that information unless you were part of the police bureau. And I start _desperately_ clawing my way to the garbage chute again, making the strangest noises along the way.

" _Stop_ that." He declares and I immediately cease squirming. How does he do that? Seeing that there is no physical solution to this problem, I try to see if I can pull any heart strings and release the waterworks.

"Puh-please sir! I have an eight year-old son and two daughters! I need to get back to my husband and my family!" I weep with enough gusto that I think I deserved an Oscar...even though those are long gone.

"You're twenty. So unless you had a child when you were _twelve_..." I feel his eyes pierce my skin. **I give up! I surrender!** I throw my arms up and wave around an imaginary white flag.

"Fine! Take me in. Let me rot in prison." I grumble and cross my arms over his boot. He continues reading my file.

"Stolen intel from Alderaan, Bothawui, Gorse, D'Qar..." He pauses. "D'Qar?" He repeats.

"Yes, last month." I scratch my arm - dang mosquitoes.

He leans in closer, which means his boot is going further into my abdomen, which means my spine is bending in a way that _**can't**_ be healthy and asks, "For whom?"

"Some General." I furiously push his foot away but those legs of steels stay where they are.

Hesitation. Then instantly afterwards, "How much experience do you have as...whatever you are?" **Wow thanks** , am I so lowly a creature you can't make out what I am?

"I'm a mercenary."

"You're a thief. Now answer the question." And - **gawk** , his footing is heavy - I wheeze out, "Five ye-ars."

"How would you like to work for the First Order?"

**_Wait, wait, wait._ What?**

"The First Order of what?" I blink a couple of times in my confused stupor.

His gestures indicate that he thinks I'm mentally damaged, but he maintains his cool demeanor and quickly explains, "The First Order. You're on Starkiller Base. We are restoring balance in the universe."

Sounds like _hog wash_ to me but I sweetly ask, "So I won't be...killed?"

Look of pure surprise - **_not_** that I can tell with that mask - and stout shake of the head. Then _of course_ I'll work for the First Order! You could be a band of assassins and I would still join you! You could literally tell me you were trying to open the Gates of Hell and I would still happily help.

"Is that a yes?"

I nod my head until I see the Big Dipper in a bowl of yams and try to shake his boot instead of his hand to seal the deal. He seems to be regretting his decision already, but he nonetheless matter-of-factedly states, "You will be my personal trainee. Clean yourself up, and the droid over there will bring you to your room."

Something tells me this is a bad decision - but what other choice do I have? So I listen to his instructions and am led to a small cylindrical capsule with a bed in the shape of a tube and cabinets on the walls. The droid hands me a first aid kit and I ice my jaw, collapsing into the soft sheets.

Looks like I'm a member of the First Order.

And Ren is going to be my teacher.


	2. Chapter 2

“You are,  _ without a doubt _ , the most useless person I have ever laid eyes upon.” The voice behind the mask booms into my ear.

 

It isn’t  _ my _ fault that he has overestimated my capabilities as a soldier...or anything that requires physical exertion for that matter. Because although I am a quick little fox when it comes to stealing things, breaking into offices, and  **occasionally** hitting people over the head with my trusty wooden staff, I am not able to and probably  **_never will be able to_ ** complete one full push up.

 

And furthermore, it is only  **_6am in the morning_ ** . No one on this God forsaken base is awake except for my trainer/mentor/ _ saviour _ \- ugh. My brain cells are in fact currently asleep, still wrapped up comfortably in their pajamas, as is the rest of my body (the Maddox St. Claire office is only active from 12pm to 4pm, and only 3pm-5pm on weekends, thank you very much). If I had known that early training actually  _ did _ happen  _ so _ early in the morning, I would have told Commander Ren to just stab me with his flaming sword. This is cruel and unusual punishment. This is just,  **plain outrageous** ! 

 

“Couldn’t you -  **oomph** \- at least,” I wheeze as I mentally will my stick arms to at least  _ try _ and hold the weight of both my torso and Crazy Ren’s legs of steel which have taken refuge in the small of my back, “let me -  **ugh** \- change into more suitable -  **god** \- clothes?” I strain with all my might but end up in a quivering heap on the ground, a small bundle of Starkiller Base issued black pajamas. 

 

“I should  _ really _ just get rid of you.” He huffs, and lifts me up in one swift movement with his gloved hand. I gargle,  **very** attractive mind you, and smile sheepishly. Please be kidding, please be kidding -

 

“I thought your profession required more movement than you seem to show.” He continues, still holding me up as if I weigh two pounds. I incomprehensibly utter a retort, but am cut short by his hand pressing harder around my collar. “Are you really a  _ mercenary _ or are you lying to me?”

 

“I-I am-am  **not** lying!” I cough out.

 

“Then why are you so weak?” He asks, as if it were more of a question than an insult. My pride deflates to a third its size.

 

I wiggle around in his grasp and pray that someone will come by and declare his actions a great atrocity to mankind. Where are one of those humanitarian activist when you need them?

 

“Why are you so weak?” He repeats, this time almost crushing my windpipe.

 

I lightly kick him in the stomach, but it is  _ my _ foot that becomes hurt from the surprisingly tough abs of the surprisingly un-tough Lord Ren. Seeing that I am unable to form even half a proper thought, Ren seems to change his mind.

 

“Again.” And he dumps me back onto the cold floor and stands expectantly. 

 

**Uh uh.** No, sir, with all due respect,  **_I am not_ ** going through that  _ entire _ circuit again. Not until, of course, I get some breakfast and a change of clothes. I have nervous-sweated clean through this shirt, and truthfully, I don’t think Ren’s mask can filter out the smell of fear sweat.

 

“Again.” He says, this time with a gentle ~~painful~~ prod of his boot.

 

“Sir, I  _ honestly _ do not think I am physically capable of completing a pushup.” I groan with all my might, and bury myself into the cold ground, “I  _ do _ believe, however, that I can be of much  _ more _ assistance with...mental tasks.” I mumble, trying to see if he will take the bait and negotiate my withdrawal from Gym Class with Ren 101, where your health is the least important thing on the agenda.

 

I mean, this morning, I was basically  **dumped** out of bed by three angry Stormtroopers (I deciphered their emotions based on how one tried to suffocate me with a pillow and another muttered about having to do  _ all of the dirty work _ ) and a hyperactive drone. It kept on chittering about, “How  _ exciting _ it must be to train with  _ Lord Ren _ !” I was certain that Ren himself had programmed it to be his own personal cheerleader. 

 

I was willing to give  _ half my soul _ to skip out on this training. I pretended to be unconscious, but had to break out of character when Stormtrooper #2 suggested to  **cremate** me (Who doesn’t check if I’m breathing first?!). Then I cried about how my face still hurt (and it  _ really, really  _ did) and that it wasn’t ethical to put me straight into training. But that ended in a giant pile of bullshit when the drone,  **_overjoyed_ ** with being needed for once, pulled out a small laser gun and in that chippery voice, said, “I can heal you with this!  _ Lord Ren _ was the one who invented the RayHealer, where your microscopic lesions are fused together by the energy of the laser!  _ Lord Ren _ is truly…”

 

He didn’t get to finish his sentence because I demolished his existence with an unhinged metal cabinet. And I was knocked out - not by a fire extinguisher this time - by one of the drone’s flying arms.

 

Talk about karma.

 

///

 

“This will be hundreds of times more painful than that circuit you only half-finished.” Lord Ren states, pounding down the metal corridors in a pattern of dancing black clothes.

 

I trail behind him like a lost puppy, but considering the fact that I am  **_constantly_ ** tripping over the grated floor and drooling over my chin, I am much more of a  **demented raccoon** than anything. At the very least, he had taken me up on the offer, and I was able to trade my brain for my body. After all, what mental task can be as painful as 20 sit-ups followed by a 100m sprint? Solving some math problems or decoding a password are walks in the park compared to that. 

 

Then is occurs to me that I  **_still_ ** don’t have shoes. My boots were resting at the bottom of a moss swamp. He  _ did _ let me change clothes after much begging and tantrum-throwing, but seeing that I had no personal possessions with me aside from my muddy stuff from yesterday, I had to take one of the radar technician’s jumpsuits. It reeks of bad cafeteria food and misery, but now I don’t have to worry about flashing anyone in those flamboyantly loose shorts. 

 

Yet, I  _ completely _ forgot about getting some shoes. 

 

“Um, sir?” I inquire, stopping halfway.

 

He immediately spins around and glares at me, unmoving. How dare I, a lowly trainee, ask for anything from the powerful Commander of the galaxy?! At least that’s what his mask seems to emanate. 

 

I shift my weight on the balls of my feet and quietly ask, “Is it alright if I get a pair of boots? Or even slippers?”

 

Silence. 

 

**_Oh no_ ** , there is probably an unspoken rule against asking for shoes. Did the First Order have a foot fetish? Was it illegal to wear slippers? I look around wildly to find a garbage chute, but alas, there is nothing but a janitor’s closet which is too small for even noodle Maddox to fit in. 

 

“You want...shoes?” He seems to be wholly confused by my request.

 

“Yes.” I guess he can’t see that I’m barefoot? Does he need to clean those eyeholes in his mask or is this about something entirely different?

 

Absolute silence again.

 

Lord Ren promptly turns his back to me and continues strutting down the hallway towards whatever destination he desires. And I have no choice but to tiptoe after him, avoiding the weird gunk growing on the edge of the floorboards and the wall. 

 

I do not understand Starkiller Base. 

 

And I  **_absolutely_ ** do not understand Commander Ren.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter! long one next :)


End file.
